


Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Four

by Thrafrau (annmcbee)



Series: Wheel of Westeros [23]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dragonstone, Episode: s04e10 The Children, Episode: s08e01 Winterfell, F/M, Lovecraftian, Lys (ASoIaF), Original Character(s), Pentos, The Free Cities (ASoIaF), Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25901899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annmcbee/pseuds/Thrafrau
Summary: Griff is reunited with someone important to him, and comes to regret a past decision. Daenerys is beset by a rising offensive of slavers, and must shelter in the manse of an old friend who has turned up dead. Griff heads to King's Landing to negotiate Cersei's surrender while nursing the pain of a beloved's betrayal.
Relationships: Aegon VI Targaryen/Daenerys Targaryen, Bran Stark & Aegon VI Targaryen, Jon Connington & Aegon VI Targaryen, Long Haul Jon/Daenerys, Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen, Victarion Greyjoy/Daenerys Targaryen, Young Griff/Arianne Martell
Series: Wheel of Westeros [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1458574
Kudos: 9





	Wheel of Westeros Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Four

**_The Wheel of Westeros_ **

**Book Five: Rise of Griff Part Four**

_Disclaimer:_

_This fan fiction is meant neither to be a continuation of George R. R. Martin’s_ A Song of Ice and Fire _series, nor a revision of seasons 6-8 of the HBO series,_ Game of Thrones _. It is meant to stand alone, independent of those works, and can be read alone by those who have not seen the TV series or read the books. Having said that, this work will borrow from not only_ Game of Thrones _and_ A Song of Ice and Fire, _but from multiple other works of film, television, music and literature. Please see footnotes for references, and feel free to point out any I’ve forgotten._

Chapter 1: Griff

Less than two weeks after their arrival back at Dragonstone, Griff was completely recovered, and it was time to hold court at last. It was Arianne, he believed, who brought him out of the darkness. She and Septa Lemore hadn’t left his bedside. The scabs over his burn had dried up and flaked away, leaving a third of the sigil of House Targaryen, one red, horned head and one sharp set of claws, in the space from his nipple to the bottom of his ribcage. While he dressed, Arianne ran a finger along the scar, making it tingle.

“Now the dragon is always with you,” she said, and kissed him.

She wore a drape-y silken gown cinched at the middle with a slim snake of gold, and looked so lovely in it, that all Griff wanted to do was take it off her. He placed a hand on her waist and began to kiss her neck, breathing in her scent of oranges and cloves. “I want you, now,” he said. “We’re early anyway…”

“I know we are,” Arianne said, kissing his ear. Then she stepped away from him and touched his cheek. “But not now…there’s something I want to show you…here.”

She helped him into his shirt, and he began to lace it up reluctantly. Arianne dashed out the door quickly, and when she returned, a man was behind her. At first, Griff didn’t recognize him, but when the man removed the hood of his cloak to reveal a head of red hair shot through with gray, he knew the man was Jon Connington.

“Gods,” Connington said. “You’re still getting taller!”

Griff was speechless for a moment. He looked at Arianne and smiled, then back at his foster father, who showed no signs of being ill. “You look well…are you…”

“Cured, yes. The greyscale is gone.” Connington’s eyes became watery. He held his arms open, and Griff ran into them, something he never thought he’d be able to do again.

Numerous representatives from various houses of the Reach had come, and they gathered in the imposing throne room to pledge their fealty to Griff. The prince wore his new raiment of head-to-toe ebon leather, broken in color only by the three-headed dragon sewn in crimson thread and embellished with tiny beads of dragonglass, of which there was lately a surplus lying around. The King in the North had inspired him to trade in the royal blue of his previous breeches and doublet, which didn’t quite fit him anymore anyway, for pure black. Unlike Jon Snow, he did wear a crown, though it was only a subtle circlet of steel, with one oval chunk of obsidian at the very front and center. He had hoped his silver hair would reach his shoulders by this time, but so much of it had burned off that it was as short as it had been when he first snipped out the old blue dye. He felt he looked too thin, though Lemore had been feeding him fried bread with sugar and corn chowder with bacon until he thought he would burst.

Many of the lords who appeared were from smaller houses, and loyal to House Tyrell for the most part. Of note, there were the Beesburys, the Peakes, House Norridge and House Norcross. Too many houses of the Reach had gone extinct between Euron Greyjoy and the Lannisters. Some houses were represented by mere children, orphaned by the destruction of the Sept of Baelor or the Battle of the Blackwater. Few came from Oldtown, and that was an ill omen, even as Jon Connington had come home safe and well. Those who could speak to the situation in Oldtown had nothing happy to report, however no one had comprehensive information. Fortunately, they had Brandon Stark. The young Lord of Winterfell, their hostage along with the young lords of Seaworth and Storm, had a gift of sight like Griff had never thought existed. He called himself the “Three-Eyed Raven” and could see what is and what was anywhere where weirwoods grew, including Oldtown. He could not walk due to an old injury, so Griff had assigned young Steffen and Stannis Seaworth to be his helpmates, and their mother acted as his nurse. When Griff called Bran forward, the boys carried him up and deposited him in a cushioned chair similar to the one in which Lady Olenna Tyrell sat, herself not able to stand for very long.

“Lord Stark, can you see any visions of what is happening in Oldtown?” Griff asked him.

“Yes…I can, and I’m afraid the news is grave,” Bran said in his typical emotionless tone, colored only by his Northern accent. Griff didn’t like talking to Bran. He made him uncomfortable, not because he couldn’t walk, but because of his cold demeanor and his stare that seemed to look inside a person. Griff hated the thought that Bran might know what he was thinking, that he could envision him in the most private moments. Fortunately, he was kept busy by Trystane Martell, who had escaped to Dragonstone from King’s Landing, and enjoyed playing cyvasse with him.

“The city is overrun, including the Citadel,” Bran continued. “Euron’s creatures and cultists have taken over. Most of the maesters have fallen under dark spells. Hardly any of the factories or shops can function, and anyone who tries to flee the city risks being nabbed by slavers. The Hightowers are trapped in their tower and won’t be able to hold it much longer, I’m sorry to say.”

“Slavers!” Ser Barristan Selmy’s shocked voice interjected. “Are you quite sure? Slavers are taking Westerosi citizens?”

“They’ve always taken the smallfolk from time to time,” said Bran with a sour glance. “But now the highborn are being taken too.”

“My brother,” Ser Loras said. “Know you anything of my brother Willas? Is he alive?”

“He is,” Bran answered. “But Euron has him captive at Pyke, and he may not have much time…I can say more, but…” Bran looked behind him at the crowd of lords and knights. “I think it best if we discuss this further in private council, your grace.”

Loras looked crestfallen, and Griff felt helpless. He addressed the gathering, trying to sound confident. “I will make Oldtown a priority, my lords. I swear it. I will not allow my people to be sold into slavery. Fortunately, Daenerys rules the seas in the East. She will stop those slave vessels and return our citizens to Westeros.”

“Forgive me, your grace, but how?” Harry Strickland spoke up. “I understood Daenerys lacked a fleet.”

“Daenerys has a great deal of gold, which she uses to commission ships from time to time,” Selmy quickly replied. “She has the dragons as well.”

“Are these dragons ever going to cross the Narrow Sea and help us?” Harry asked. “The situation in the Reach seems quite serious, sire.”

“I know that, Harry,” Griff said impatiently. For once, he understood the man’s point. It was starting to feel as though Dany had forgotten about him. She hadn’t replied at all to his letter urging her to wed him immediately, and Bran couldn’t tell him anything about Essos. Griff couldn’t help but notice too that the Martells bristled at the mention of her. Just the sound of her name always made Arianne frown. “I still await word from Dany. In the meantime, we do have a small cache of wildfire stolen from Cersei. We may have to make do with that, but we _will get the Reach back from this sorcerer_. You have my word, my lords.”

He called Franklyn Flowers forward next. Frank had only just returned from his sojourn to the Riverlands. Griff hoped he had better news, and he did, but not much better. Sansa Stark had been crowned Queen of the Riverlands and the Vale, and was in contention for the Westerlands with Euron, whose shadow had fallen over them as well. The notorious Hangwoman, or Lady Stoneheart as she was called, was in fact her mother, Catelyn Stark. Her life was somehow restored by the magic of the red god Rh’llor. Frank had converted, too, to Griff’s further dismay.

“I know it sounds mad, your grace, but I saw it with my own eyes,” Frank said. “The Brotherhood Without Banners follows her like sheep to a shepherd, though I say it’s right unnatural.”

Griff pressed his eyes shut until blue dragons danced under his eyelids. “Frank, are you sure it was Catelyn Stark? How is this possible?”

“It’s her all right…you should have seen poor Lady Sansa’s face if you don’t believe it.”

“Poor Lady Sansa! The traitor Sansa you mean,” Ser Rolly Duckfield said. Duck’s voice was most welcome, Griff felt, though he had trouble thinking of Lady Sansa as a traitor.

“Sansa’s more a prisoner than a queen, truth be told, your grace,” Frank said. “Lady Stoneheart would have them march to the North and take it from King Jon, but she won’t do it. She’s a sweet lady, sire. If you were to confront her, she’d give herself up, I’d wager.”  
Frank explained that the Brotherhood wasn’t entirely enthralled by the Hangwoman. In fact, a growing outcrop called the Hollow Hill Brothers had bent the knee to Aegon Targaryen VI, and the red priest Thoros of Myr was in the process of joining them.

“When he leaves, Rh’llor leaves, and that’s the beginning and end of Lady Stoneheart’s true power,” Frank said. “Without the Lord of Light, they’re nothing but a band of outlaws.”

“Frank, are you telling me you worship this red god now? Are you joking?”

“No joke, your grace. What can I say? When you see a god’s work right in front of your eyes…well. Let’s just say I haven’t seen the Seven do what I seen this one do.”

“Frank I cannot have a heretic on my guard…didn’t you think about that?”

“Of course, I understand, your grace. But I can serve you and the Lord both if you’ll let me. The Hollow Hill wants to march north and aid Jon Snow fighting the Others in your name. Pray, let me go with them and find out whether this is bollocks or no. Even if it is, these boys can put an end to Stoneheart’s outlaws and clear the way for you in the Riverlands. Some impressive captains among them… young Ned Dayne for one. Could make good allies, heretics though they may be…”

Griff agreed, which meant he needed to replace both Frank and Lomas Estermont on his kingsguard. Morty Boggs was absent also, apparently suffering from a strange and serious illness since Oldtown. Griff was losing his guard as fast as he could raise them up. Ser Leo Blackbar would replace Lomas, and perhaps Hugh Beesbury would do to replace Frank, but if Morty died, who would take his seat?

Pykewood Peake was a thought, be he had been placed in charge of the mining operation, which was going smoothly, he reported. The obsidian was easy to mine, and the scraps were valuable, they found. Peake thought they should keep more than they sent north. Naturally, he was very skeptical about the purpose for which the King in the North wanted it.

“I made a pact with Jon Snow that I cannot break. I truly believe that once this issue in the North is dealt with, that he will ally himself to our cause. He gave me no reason to doubt his honor,” Griff said.

“Forgive me, your grace,” Olenna Tyrell spoke from her chair. “But I can’t help but wonder about that, given what his sister has gone and gotten herself into. If it weren’t for the utter ludicrousness of it, I might believe this business with the Others is a Stark ploy to gain power. Given what happened to their family at the hands of the Lannisters, and if you’ll forgive me again, the Targaryens, I’d say they have plenty of reason to abandon their honor and use this nonsense to topple the realm into their own wolfish hands, though I would have chosen a less silly way to go about it.”

In a rare moment of agreement between the Tyrells and Martells, Ellaria Sand and the late Oberyn Martell’s daughters the Sand Snakes, as well as Arianne and Trystane, all seemed to nod together at this.

“Daenerys too claims to have seen them you might recall, my lady,” Griff said.

Predictably, a chorus of hissing arose, and Arianne stepped forward. “My king, you are right and good to trust those who might become your allies. Of course, the Wolf King could add great strength to your cause, just as Daenerys could. But where is Daenerys? And where are these Others? These wights?”

Griff only looked at her, momentarily distracted by how much he loved her, despite the pain in the neck she was being at the moment. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head, and when she spoke, her pearl earrings shook against her lovely golden neck. It made his mouth water.

“The Others are real, my lady. The army of the dead is real,” Bran was saying. “I have seen them, just as Daenerys has.”

“I believe you, Bran,” Griff said. “That is, I believe that you saw _something_. That Dany saw _something_. But you must forgive my lords and ladies who find this a little incredible. As a member of the Stark family, you are inherently suspect to those who don’t know you well.”

“We don’t know Daenerys, either, my king,” Arianne said. “What we do know of her is the brutality of her dragons, who burned my brother Prince Quentyn to death. Can you be sure that she is faithful? Who is to say she is not conspiring with this Wolf King, a rebel who allies himself with raiders and outlaws?”

“Don’t forget heretics!” Lady Olenna added.

“Aegon is your king, ladies,” Duck said. “Maybe as his subjects, you should trust his judgment.”

A din arose in the court, in the midst of which a weak voice rang out, saying, “The Others are real…I’ve seen them!” Griff scanned the room until his eyes landed on what appeared to be a portly young novice maester. He had never seen this man before.

“You…young maester in the back. Step forward.”

The man darted forward, tripping on his robe a little before stopping in front of Bran, and smiling at him widely, as if he knew him. A pretty young woman with an overbite came with him, wearing a rough spun frock and carrying a toddler with a head of dark hair. They both bowed, and then Jon Connington stood and approached the novice, shaking his hand. _What is going on here now?_

“Connington…Lord Stark. Do you know this man?” Griff asked.

“It’s my pleasure to introduce you to the man who saved my life,” Connington said, placing a hand on the novice’s shoulder. “He cured me when no one else could. Or no one else would.”

Griff beamed and stepped forward, extending his own hand to the novice, who seemed a very humble sort for a man of the citadel. He had a mop of thin brown hair and slightly chubby cheeks with a trace of stubble. His handshake was gentle and sweaty.

“I can’t begin to thank you enough, my lord,” Griff said. “Great service deserves a great reward. If there’s anything I can do to thank you, name it and it shall be done.”

“It’s a pleasure to serve you your grace, though in truth I was only doing my duty,” the novice said.

“Pray, what is your name my lord?”

“Samwell Tarly, at your service. This is my wife Gilly and… our son, Aemon.”

Griff barely heard the names of the woman and child. The smile that had crossed his face faded, and his stomach did a flip. “Not…of the Tarlys of Horn Hill,” he said.

“That’s right, sire. My father is Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill.”

Griff looked at Connington, his brow knitted tight. “Did no one tell him?”

Connington looked confused. Of course, he didn’t know either. “Tell him what your grace?”

Griff forced himself to look Samwell in the eyes. He swallowed, and his voice came out very quiet. “Your father…and I were on opposite sides of a battle along the Gold Road. I…offered to let him retain his lands and titles if he bent the knee, but…he refused and…I’m afraid I had to execute him.” _Did I have to? Why does it not seem so now?_

Samwell turned red, and bowed his head. “Well then,” he said. “My father did disown me, sire. I suppose I can return home, now that my brother is lord there. So there’s that.”

Griff caught Duck’s horrified eyes, and then forced himself to speak. “Your brother…stood with your father.”[1]

Now Samwell’s face turned even redder, and his eyes filled with tears. “I see,” he said.

“I am sorry for your loss, Lord Tarly. I truly am…I…” Griff looked up and remembered they were in a throne room filled with people. Griff motioned for a couple of Golden Company men to come forward, as Samwell began to sway a little, and his wife placed a hand on his arm. “Please, my lord,” Griff said. “Let us speak in private council…and please accept my hospitality…you and your wife and son.”

He ordered the dejected man and his family to be placed in one of the castle’s best rooms, displacing one of the higher lords, who would have to lodge elsewhere. As he watched the man drag his feet out of the throne room, he felt a crushing weight of guilt upon his chest. Arianne’s hands were over her mouth, and her brown eyes were huge with sympathy for him. He dismissed the audience abruptly then, and when he caught Connington’s look, he suddenly felt like a child about to be scolded.

Chapter 2: Daenerys

Illyrio Mopatis was dead. It was unclear whether the pale mare had gotten him, or he’d been poisoned, or whether years of morbid obesity had finally put too much strain on his heart. What was clear was that a great deal of old parchments and books had been riffled through in his lavish den, either after or just before he died. He could have been searching for something frantically before he keeled over in his nightshirt, but his bookkeeper, Dontre, seemed to believe the collection of paperwork had been left incomplete. Dontre never saw a soul other than the other servants and the guards who resided there, however, and Illyrio’s will and testament was found intact among the scattered mess that lay beneath his dead body. To Dany’s astonishment, his magnitude of wealth was left to her, and to Griff. They were to share it evenly, including all of his investments, but only once they wed. If one of them should break off their engagement, the other would receive all. It was a dire conundrum for Dany, still secretly wed to Victarion.

Before his death, Dany had appealed to Illyrio to shelter her people at his manse, to which he agreed. Her Volantine palace had become a death trap, now that the Sons of the Harpy had hatched a new offensive, and Dany had riled many more slavers when she and her dragons had burned the Perfumed Garden to the ground. Illyrio was a frequent patron of the place, so she hadn’t expected his generosity. She hadn’t expected him to be dead before they could get there either. Still, Illyrio’s staff had welcomed hers, especially when it became clear that they would now be receiving a livable wage for their work. Dany vowed to launch a full investigation of the magister’s death, and found Dontre very cooperative and helpful with Irri’s efforts in getting things started. Ilyrio’s servant Rhia, a blue-eyed blonde who had been his favorite and served in a number of capacities, would now be assisting Jhiqui in the kitchens and with the housekeeping. Jhiqui was having a baby, and she had been overburdened anyway, even before the vomiting began. Dany hoped that her efforts would remove any suspicion that landed on her, given how much wealth she was set to inherit by his death (as long as no one knew about Victarion.)

Obviously, burning the Garden hadn’t gone over well with the wealthy magisters of Lys. Dany had sent secret warning to the bed workers themselves before lighting it ablaze, although it certainly hadn’t been empty when it went up. Those bed slaves who had been displaced were now to take employment in Pentos in an Inn formerly owned by Ilyrio that Dany had taken over at his behest. Lynesse Hightower was to be the proprietress, and it hadn’t taken much to lure her away from her husband either. Lynesse renamed it The High Tower after her family’s seat in Westeros, which Dany found amusing. She hadn’t had a conversation with Ser Jorah, her former husband, about whether _he_ found it amusing. Tregar was now among Dany’s most vitriolic enemies, unsurprisingly, and was investing a great deal in the offensive against her. She had sworn to burn a brothel to the ground every day until slavery was ended in Lys, and the brothel keepers had answered by locking their slaves inside the buildings. So Dany had burned Tregar’s manse instead, and retreated to Tyrosh to carry on negotiations that were a little more promising, and to which her husband was the key. Victarion of course wanted to go right back and carry on as planned.

“You’d have us making empty threats…are we so weak as to back down at the first setback put before us by some _pimps_!” Victarion had roared at her.

“So burn hundreds of innocent bed workers? Or thousands? What would that accomplish? Other than making me more despised than I am already?”

“You know damn well what it would accomplish. We’d have this island in a week’s time, and we’d have Myr and Tyrosh on their knees when we arrived.”

“What good is freedom to my people if they’re dead? I am not a butcher queen!”

“And how not? Do you think the gods brought you dragons that you might be a beggar? What care you if you’re despised or no!” Victarion had stepped closer to her and loomed over her as he usually did when they argued. Lately, that was too often. Victarion wasn’t sleeping properly, and he was losing flesh. His hair grew grayer and his mood grew darker by the day, making Dany wonder if he knew of her intentions to set him aside (and making her afraid of what he might do when she did.)

“Cockle Shell,” he had said to her. “Once we have this island and these disputed lands, you can set thousands of slaves free if that’s your fancy. As queen, you can do whatever you bloody well like. But you will not _end_ slavery in this lifetime, don’t you see that?”

Dany turned her back on him and crossed her arms angrily. “I _will_.”

Victarion took her by the shoulders and spun her around roughly. At first, the tight grasp of his tentacle hurt, but he thought better and loosened it when she glared at him. “Cockle Shell…there has always been, and there _always will be slavery in this world_. This endeavor is pure fantasy, and if you keep it up, you will die. You will die and take your people with you. It is the madness of your house that drives you…I know it is!”

That last statement had made Dany even more wide-eyed with fury than the rest of it, and she ordered him out of their room. “Go. Back. _To your boat_ ,” she had said through her teeth. When Victarion went to place his hand on her cheek gently, she slapped it away not so gently. For a brief moment, there had been a cruel flicker in his eyes, something sinister and cold that made Dany afraid. It passed, however, and Victarion had left her, muttering curses under his breath. She hadn’t taken him into her bed since.

Dany had rained fire upon some of the island’s brothels, not destroying them completely but sending a message: all bed workers would be set free or paid a wage to stay. Further, no boys under the age of fourteen would be employed, and no girls who had not yet flowered. Dany remembered how terrified she had been on her wedding night to Drogo. She had still been playing with a straw dolly not two years before the Khal had put his own dolly in her belly. She remembered the pain when Drogo would take her at night when she was sleeping…what if he had been more cruel? What if she had flowered even younger? It might have killed her. The vision Moqorro showed Dany had disturbed her dreams many a night – and Victarion had sold children from his own country on Lys! She felt her heart hardening toward him, and began to fantasize about Griff. She imagined him attractive, like Rheagar was said to be. Oddly, she found herself wondering about Jon Snow too. She didn’t imagine he could be very handsome, but there was something gruffly appealing about the voice that came through in his letters. He was a self-proclaimed king now, a rebel, but he seemed shrewd yet also fearless. Dany had begun to think that negotiations with him might become very interesting.

Ilyrio’s manse was smaller than she remembered, though it was still perfectly enormous – plenty large enough for her staff, court and council, including her little cupbearers. Her hostages were extremely fearful in Volantis, now that the Harpy’s eggs had hatched. Dany felt sorry for the poor things, remembering what it was like to move around from place to place, never finding home. When they got to Pentos, Missandei reported that she had gotten her first moon blood and so had the cupbearer Jezhene. Dany had the idea to throw a moon blood party with all the children. Shyrli had run up little crimson gowns and red tokars for the children to wear, and Jhiqui had decorated Illyrio’s vast parlor with an assortment of red flowers: hibiscus, dianthus, poppies, bee balm and dahlia. Rhia had the kitchen staff prepare a menu of little tomatoes, red peppers, dried candied cherries, strawberries and cream, rare beef in a wine sauce, a salad with beets, kidney beans and red cabbage, rhubarb tarts, and juices of cranberry and pomegranate. Missandei and Jezhene wore amulets of polished bloodstone to mark them as the guests of honor. Dany’s gown was red velvet with rose quartz beading, and her headdress was fashioned with scarlet silk woven over wire in the shape of an orb. To make things even more fun, Dany told only the girls what the party was about, and let it remain that the boys had no idea what the red-colored food they were eating symbolized.[2] For a time, as she dined with her little charges, Dany almost forgot that her kingdom was under attack.

She had thought her compromise, allowing slaves to remain in the custody of her masters, paid by her until the end of a year, was a prudent response to the idea that some slaves “weren’t ready” to be free of their enslavers. This was to be one of many lessons, the import of which was: _always listen to Missandei_. It was the little scribe who told her that no one was better off a slave than free, even if it meant they went hungry, but the slavers for a time had managed to convince Dany that some slaves truly wished to stay with their masters. _What was his name_ , Dany thought, as she bit down on a tomato, letting the seeds squirt into her mouth, _Fennesz_. Fennesz the slave.

He had come before her in the pyramid of Mereen, insisting that freedom had worsened his condition. _Before you freed me, I belonged to Master Madowa. I was tutor to his children. I taught them languages and history. They know a great deal about your family because of me._ That had been a clever turn…at that time, Dany knew very little about her house. Marwyn and Selmy had filled her in later. _Little Calla is only seven, but she admires you very much. When you took the city, the children begged me not to leave the house, but Master Madowa agreed that I must, so I lost my home. Now I live on the streets._ Dany felt very foolish now for having fallen for it, but she was a soft when it came to children and the old – in both heart and head it seemed. At her meal sites, the old man had told her, _the young prey on the old_. That was a lie, like so many she had heard since about slaves: that they were brutes, unfeeling and greedy unless kept in chains. When she insisted that these sites were kept safe by her men, he turned the argument right around and said, _who would I be there? What purpose would I serve? With my master, I was a teacher. I had the respect and love of his children_.[3] Respect and love? _They owned you,_ she should have said. _You cannot love or respect someone you own._ Dany hadn’t wanted to believe it, because in a way, that meant her sun and stars hadn’t ever really loved and respected _her_ either. It hurt to think, and so she had allowed this man to sell himself back to his “benevolent master.”

There was no reason a man like Fennesz need be out in the streets, Dany had reasoned. The compromise meant slaves who “weren’t ready” could get a taste of wealth, which she figured would make them feel ready soon enough. Now, however, the merchant Branrick of Westeros, as well as Ko Aggo and other spies, had heard how slavers were stealing their wages and threatening them with death if they left. Furthermore, not separating the slaves from their masters had allowed the masters to muster their strength and reinforce what Dany had crushed. Missandei had asked her, wisely as always, _why aren’t the slaves ready for freedom? Aren’t most of us born free? If a baby is ready for freedom, you would think a grown man…_ Of course her enemies would want to plant the idea in her mind that slaves were brutish, stupid, incapable of making their own way, because it was to their advantage for her to think that way. All the time, it was the slavers who were the brutes. Soon enough, they would get their due, but much blood would be shed, and many would burn.

Missandei elbowed Dany and pointed at young Akkaz, who was licking strawberry syrup from his fingers, and they both giggled uncontrollably. They had been playing that game all evening. They didn’t speak of the ill news that had Irri working instead of celebrating with them. A lot of correspondence was necessary, what with the investigation, with Daario and Ben Plumm enlisting a mysterious new army against the Harpy in the far east, and with reports from Victarion that more Westerosi citizens were arriving in slave ships protected by some dark magic. Marwyn was busy dealing with a spike in cases of the pale mare that was now affecting Stannis Baratheon’s men. That was the reason they hadn’t been able to invite his young daughter Shireen to the moon blood party, though she was of an age with Missandei, and it would have been nice for them to make friends. Victarion’s fleet could not penetrate Euron’s magic, so for the time being, he was occupied with Aurane Waters, the pirate king who now reigned over the Step Stones. If he was successful, Tyrosh would be open to ending slavery, as long as Branrick’s sister/daughter was willing to let them in on the sale of “ash,” which was taking hold there more and more. It was outselling pear brandy as the intoxicant of choice, according to Branrick, though Dany was growing suspicious of his word. Lord Tyrion was coordinating an investigation into him, and his connection to this “kraken’s daughter” rumored to have fought for Dany in Mereen.

Myr was another issue, but the memory of old Fennesz had got her thinking. The city was known as a place of learning, which meant it had to be a place of _teaching_. What might that mean for the future of her freed people? Not all of them were cut out for physical labor. Dany would travel to Myr with her dragons the morning after next, and discuss terms with the ruling magisters. The fact that they no longer had to fear the Dothraki worked in Dany’s favor. On top of that, she was coming with a great deal of gold with which she would purchase the biggest shipment of pane glass in Myrish memory. From her correspondence with Jon Snow and with Stannis, it sounded as if the wars that followed the usurper’s death had left the realm utterly unprepared for the coming winter, especially in the freezing North. Greenhouses were sometimes used to prolong the last harvests, and greenhouses were made with glass. What workers weren’t employed in building King Jon’s wall of fire, could work at building those. Dany did not want to find her people starving to death any more than she wanted to find them turned into undead wights. She was surprised to find Griff so silent on the issue – although a letter from him was so rare now. She had finally decided to write him and find out how he was doing, worried that something had gone wrong.

Jhiqui and Rhia had poured everyone a cup of Pentoshi amber wine, with a drop or three of pomegranate juice added to turn it pink. On Ilyrio’s massive veranda, hummingbirds had begun to buzz about among the potted hibiscus and azalea, taking their evening meal. To add some cheer to her cupbearers’ existence, Jhiqui’s staff had also hung glass-blown feeders from Myr filled with sugar water, also dyed red. They watched the tiny birds flitting to and fro, and every time one of them dipped into a feeder, Missandei and Jezhene had to take a drink of wine. First, Dany gave a toast. She had been thinking over what it meant that Missandei was soon to be a woman grown, and about what that meant for every woman.

“Tomorrow, fighting continues, but today I am a mother who is proud,” Dany said, as tears came to her eyes. “Proud and fortunate to see the blood of my blood grow into womanhood. I know that this makes you eligible for marriage, and when and if you choose, I will help you find a new protector to replace me. May this choice be one that comes from your heart alone, and no one else’s ambitions. You never need be afraid of your bed, as long as I love you.”

Missandei leaped up from her cushion and ran to her, throwing her arms around her waist in a warm hug. Soon the other girls followed, one by one in their soft crimson gowns, and Dany felt like the red rose that opens its heart to the sun.

Chapter 3: Griff

The tents pitched among the trees reminded Griff of his hunting trips with Connington in the Forests of Qohor. Sometimes he really missed those days – life was so much simpler then. He had almost forgotten how much he loved the outdoors. They had set up camp in the Kingswood not far off shore where they had landed south of the Capitol. The voyage had been stormy, but now the skies were clear and the air was fragrant and cool. Autumn had descended on the forest, and it was abound with glorious color that looked especially bright when polished by rain. Wild flowers sprinkled the ground with yellow, purple and lacey white that smelled sweet and fresh. _It’s so romantic,_ Arianne had said. _I could marry you right here._ If only, Griff thought. Now that he didn’t have to wait for Daenerys Targaryen’s approval, they could wed on the morrow. He had a mind to do just that some nights, when he lay fuming in his bed at his aunt who had abandoned him.

The wedding of Aegon VI and Arianne Martell was to take place on the shores of Dragonstone in three months’ time. Arrangements were being made by Marya Seaworth and other ladies of the Stormlands along with Ellaria Sand and her daughters, with the exception of Elia, who was traveling with them to the Capitol along with her sister Obara. Arianne’s gown would be made at Sunspear by her family dressmaker and then sent up. Weddings took an awful long time to plan – if Griff had his way, they would marry the very day they returned from King’s Landing. However, his advisors made it clear that the soon-to-be king and queen of Westeros needed to be joined in an affair that would make an impression. Selmy of course begged him to delay and give Dany another chance, but he was no longer Hand of the King. He would be halfway across the Narrow Sea by now, though Griff was beginning to regret letting him go entirely. At least he had been honest when Griff had asked for the truth about Dany’s marriage to the Ironborn captain.

The trip to King’s Landing was short, and Griff thought of making Arianne stay behind for her safety, but she had insisted. The point was to show his full strength, and that included showing off his future queen, she told him. If Daenerys wasn’t going to be there, Arianne should be. They were bringing a good portion of their fleet, the Golden Company, the knights of the Stormlands and the Reach, and a host of royal Dornish arms. Trystane was among them, which Griff knew would rattle Myrcella, and certainly make her think twice about violating guest right. They had the Three-Eyed Raven, and a half dozen elephants as well. They weren’t dragons, but they were impressive enough to show Cersei Lannister who she was dealing with. It was her surrender they were negotiating, not his – that would be clear. Word had arrived, however, that Euron Greyjoy would be joining the negotiations. He was what Cersei and Myrcella had, and he was dangerous. They had feared he would attack them in Blackwater Bay, so they had taken a more circuitous route around Massey’s Hook. Griff would have liked to take their wildfire and send this devil to hell, but Euron’s ships never showed. It was also rumored that Myrcella was calling her offensive a “holy war” against heretics in the North and the Riverlands, but Euron gave the lie to that. If anyone stood for the Seven, it was Griff, and he was bringing Septa Lemore as testimonial.

Lemore kept nagging at Griff to eat more. _Your cheeks are still too hollow!_ But Griff didn’t wish to overeat when Arianne was to spend the night in his tent with him The fish Griff and Duck had caught were cooked in a thick stew with barley and cream in a great kettle over the fire, and some pheasants stuffed with butter, lemon and rosemary were roasted on spits. Another kettle was filled with fresh crabs soaking in wine, sage and butter. They ate the crab and then sopped up the juice with bread that was soft on the inside and crispy on the outside. When the sky turned to a steely gray, and thunder began to rumble over the bay to the east, lanterns and braziers were quickly lit and the cook fires put out, and all retired to the shelter of their tents.

Griff and Arianne were kissing passionately before the flap was even closed. Arianne’s skin was cool and dewy, and her hair had absorbed the smells of herbs and lemon. The bed had been made up with piles of fur and heavy velvet blankets to ward off the chill of the darkening night. Griff gently slipped Arianne’s gown, an airy-light dark green linen with embroidered sunbursts in gold thread, off her soft brown shoulders and pulled it down from her waist along with the silky half-shift and smallclothes beneath. He dashed around the tent lighting the candles and braziers to cut the shadows that obscured her loveliness. She pulled her lush dark hair from its twist and let the curls fall over her back and shoulders, as Griff kissed her neck and her breasts, then knelt and kissed her hipbone and belly. She shivered, and goosebumps rose on her skin. “It will get warm in here soon, my love,” Griff said, and took off his own clothes.

Arianne stepped softly toward him and kissed his neck, and ran her lips along his scar as she knelt before him now. She clutched his hardening member and kissed the tip of that as well, making Griff suck in a long breath. He took her to the bed and pulled her under the furs with him. His hands found their way to her full, soft breasts and his mouth followed. For a while, he enjoyed her moans as he slipped his hand between her legs and open her gently with his fingers, then when he couldn’t hold back anymore, he rolled on top of her. He groaned when he made his way inside her, ferociously kissing her and swallowing her sighs of pleasure. Soon the furs and blankets had fallen to the floor, and sighs had become cries of _my love, my love, my love._ They took a short break after he came, and lay facing each other. Little rivulets of sweat shone on Arianne’s forehead and between her breasts, and her plump lips were swollen from his kisses. He caressed the softness of her hips for a while, then rose to pour them two cups of wine. When he did, he was immediately dismayed to hear Duck yelling _Sire_ from outside.

“Go away, Duck!” Griff shouted back.

“I’m sorry to disturb you Sire, but…Morty’s dead.” Duck’s voice seemed to break.

Arianne gasped, and Griff nearly spilled wine all over the floor. “Just a moment, Duck.”

Mortimer Boggs had insisted on attending the parlay in King’s Landing, despite Sam Tarly’s strong recommendation that he stay back. The illness had taken all the color from his face and made him exhausted all day and sleepless at night. He gave off a foul odor, for which he continuously apologized while in a somewhat dazed and red-eyed state. He and Tarly told Griff horrifying stories of what Euron was doing in Oldtown, or seemed to be doing, with some sort of ancient magic. Bran told them that Euron was breeding an army of fish-like men, using human men and women as breeders, including poor Willas Tyrell. The High Tower was under siege, and fighting magic with magic. Lord Leyton Hightower and his daughter Malora, the “mad maid” were able to hold off Euron’s spells with their own, but not for long. Sam Tarly had broken the rules of the Archmaesters, sneaking into the secret libraries and stealing forbidden books with the intention of researching the Others. It was a good thing, because what he read in those books showed him how to protect himself from the evil that would soon disable the maesters in strange ways. He also read how to cure greyscale, for which Griff had him named and honorary maester, though he hadn’t been able to complete his training, and was married with a child. Soon it had been only Sam and another novice who were treating patients during the day. At night, they fought off the monsters that the men of the city had become. Sam had also managed to write an account of what he’d seen, of which Griff had managed to read some:

_It is unnaturally hot for autumn. The restless crowds of hungry and terrified city folk run through the stifling night, hoping to escape, and finding themselves in chains. There are hooded forms amidst the ruins of the market, and yellow evil faces peering from behind fallen monuments. At night, a blackness rises over the sea and looms over the town: whirling, churning; struggling around the dimming, cooling sun. Sparks play around the heads of frightened spectators, and many-tentacled shadows more grotesque than I can tell come out and squat on their heads. The icthyoids crawl from the surf one after another, as if driven forth by some dark master in the deep. The moon shines greenish from some miasma. We all depend on its light, since no lamps or sconces stay lit, and the men of the Citadel drift into curious involuntary formations and seem to know their destinations but dare not think of them. On the pavement, the stones come loose, displaced by grass, and scarce a line of rusted metal remains of the great astrolabe. Wayns sit in the street motionless, unhorsed, dilapidated, and on their sides. The silhouette of the High Tower is ragged at the top, like with black flames. The grand maester keeps Gilly and Aemon up at night, howling with a mad laughter. Inexplicable snows, swept asunder in one direction only, blow through the libraries. The black rift in the green-litten snow is frightful, and the reverberations of a disquieting wail can either be the maesters in their throes, or the victims of the blood-drinkers. I can give Gilly no comfort, so she locks herself in and sharpens wooden lances, while I do what I can for the sick, cell by cell. **[4]**_

Sam believed that the city had become overrun with howling madmen, cultists worshipping this “Storm God,” fish people with enormous strength, and “blood-drinkers” who attacked women and children in the night and sucked them dry of blood. Bran confirmed it, but Griff couldn’t believe it. As thankful as he was for Sam’s treating Connington, Lady Olenna had instilled a nagging doubt in him about Bran’s word. Sam, too, was a good friend of Jon Snow, and had even met Bran north of The Wall. It seemed that Starks, or friends of the Starks, were insistent on these fantastic occurrences when nobody else was. Could he be blamed for being suspicious after what Ned Stark had helped do to his family? Sam did inform Griff that Aemon was not his son, but the son of a Wildling king. Jon Snow had forced Gilly to switch her baby with him to protect young Aemon from the night fires of a red priestess. Though Bran told him Gilly’s son was quite safe at Greywater Watch, Griff hoped this could be a point over which he might win Sam away from the King in the North. At the same time, that he had connections to the Bastard King might be advantageous, for it sounded as if Myrcella was terrified of Jon Snow.

Sam worried that whatever disease had affected the blood-drinkers had taken Morty, who must have died during supper, at which he never appeared. He lay in his tent on his back, unbreathing and still, his hands folded over his chest, his skin as white as fish’s belly. Griff ordered his body be placed in a nearby stream to keep cool, and he could be shipped to Crackclaw Point the next morning.

“Your grace, if you please,” Sam Tarly said nervously. “I think we should burn the body now. We can send the remains on, can we not?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tarly,” said Griff. “His people are only across the bay. There’s a storm coming. His ashes will become mud if we’re able to get a fire going at all.”

“Then might I gently suggest that we remove his head and also his heart?”

“Goodnight, Sam.”

Griff shook his head and went back to the tent where Arianne was waiting, wrapped in furs and sipping a cup of wine. He sighed.

“I need to pray,” he said.

“Of course my beloved king. I’m so sorry about your knight. I know how well you liked Ser Mortimer.”

Griff knelt at the altar in the corner of the tent and lit a taper before it. The statuette was of the Warrior, apropos to the occasion, though what Griff really needed to ask for was a way to be grateful, despite what seemed like setback after setback. As he prayed with his head bent, he felt Arianne’s hands kneading the knotted muscles of his shoulders. When he had said as many prayers as he could muster, he crawled into bed with Arianne, who had saved him. It was Arianne who received the letter from her mother about Dany that confirmed her worst fears about Griff’s aunt and betrothed. She had betrayed him. She had married his enemy’s own brother – so perhaps she was indeed conspiring with Jon Snow. Mellario of Norvos said many other horrible things about Dany that had made Arianne shudder with fear, but Griff didn’t know if he believed all of them. Still it broke his heart when she said tearfully, _Did you have to write her? Did you have to? I don’t want her to come…I don’t want to share you with her!_

Arianne wrapped her leg around Griff’s naked hip and pulled herself tightly against him, her breasts soft and warm against the sensitive tissue of his scar. Griff took her cheek in his hand and kissed her deeply. _I’m thankful for Arianne_ , he still prayed, silently, as he entered her again.

[1]David Benioff & D.B. Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 8, Episode 1: “Winterfell,” HBO, 2019.

[2] Kreischer, Burt. _Hey Big Boy_ , Netflix, May 19, 2020.

[3] Benioff & Weiss, _Game of Thrones_ , Season 4, Episode 10: “The Children,” HBO, 2014.

[4] Lovecraft, H.P. “Nyarlahotep,” 1920. <https://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/fiction/n.aspx>

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing in a limited POV style like Martin's, which is a suffocating way to write. I have thought of a lot of neat scenes that don't fit into the POV limits I set for myself, or don't move the story along quickly enough to include in the series. I will write these out if someone requests it. If you like this story, and would like to see a scene that got skipped or glossed over, OR that is in the POV of someone who is not a Stark, Targaryen, Baratheon, Greyjoy, or Lannister, let me know what you'd like to see, and I will make a Wheel of Westeros B-side out of it.


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